


The Blue Ball

by melliott929



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Friendship/Love, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, case-fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melliott929/pseuds/melliott929
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson finds a mysterious item at 221b Baker Street, many long months after the death of his friend, Sherlock Holmes.  Could this mean that Sherlock is still alive?  This time, John will have to be the detective to solve the mystery and hopefully, be reunited with his best mate, once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Blue Ball

John Watson grumbled at the array of crisp, white envelopes strewn inside the front door of 221 Baker Street. Bills. Several with angry red lettering spelling out “Final Notice,” or other threatening language that made John feel even worse than usual. He couldn’t seem to get ahead of the bills now that he was paying the full rent and all of the expenses alone. 

Yes, logically he knew he should move or get a new flatmate, but he couldn’t bring himself to do those things. He didn’t like the thought of someone else sleeping in Sherlock’s room and even though the flat evoked many memories that were painful, John had decided that, for now at least, those memories were the most important things he had. 

He trudged up the stairs, but not fast enough to avoid Mrs. Hudson, who chuntered on about the weather, her hip and the effects of the weather upon her hip. She was a dear thing and John was fond of her, but tonight he just wanted to sit down and not think for a while. He made his apologies, drug himself up the 17 stairs and entered the flat, while looking down and sorting through the bills in his hand.

Which proved to be a mistake, as he slipped on something while crossing into the sitting room. Well, rolled, would be a better way to describe it, he thought to himself as he was flailing backwards, his feet having shot out from under him. It must have taken less than a second, but while he was airborne, already anticipating a hard landing, he saw the object that caused this dramatic entrance – a small, round ball. “Where have I seen that ball before?” he wondered as he hit the floor, ass first, followed by elbows and then the back of his head. Stunned, he lay there motionless for a moment, his mind and body adjusting to this trauma. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the ball continued to roll, and was now gently rebounding off the wall and coming toward him. 

It was stopped by a crease in the carpet, just inches from his face. A small, round ball. Blue. Made of rubber. Like the kind they used in hand ball. But John didn’t play hand ball. It wasn’t his ball. How the hell had it found its way to middle of the floor? 

Groaning, he reached out to pluck it from the carpet. The instant his fingers made contact with the smooth rubber, a memory popped into his mind. Sherlock sitting on the floor at St. Bart’s, bouncing a ball. A small, blue ball. Exactly like the one in John’s hand. “Strange,” he thought. “Why had Sherlock been bouncing a ball?” John tried to remember other times when he’d seen Sherlock do something remotely sporty and came up empty. He started to feel that bouncing the ball had been very out of character for Sherlock.

John was able to sit up now and stare more closely at the ball. Again he wondered how it got into the flat and the middle of the floor. He pulled himself up to standing, picked up the bills (which had scattered as he was flying through the air moments ago) and stuck the ball in his pocket. Probably best to not think about it anymore. He tried to not dwell on Sherlock, he tried to just do the best he could with each day, each moment. It was always there, of course. Right below the surface. It took almost nothing to recall standing on the ground, looking up at the sky as Sherlock flew closer and closer to the earth. He had gone over that telephone conversation a thousand times in his mind, always wanting to say something else, something different that would have changed the outcome. But he never had the right words and Sherlock always fell and there was nothing to be done about it except to put the kettle on, heat up something in the microwave and sit in front of the tele to waste another night. 

He went through the motions without thinking. Turned the hob on, microwave, tea bag in mug, milk at the ready. He stood, waiting for the whistle of the kettle or the ding of the microwave, leaning against the counter with a happy absence of thought. The microwave dinged first and as he turned, he could feel the ball in his pocket again, caught between his body and the kitchen counter. Pressed against his body like that reminded him of being in school when he and his friends would try and squeeze a tennis ball between their upper arm and their torso, so as to make their arm go numb. It was a fun trick, but as a kid he didn’t realize that squeezing the ball was stopping the blood flow to the arm, which is what caused the numbness. Now, as a medical doctor thinking back all those years ago, it was amusing to think how stupid he and the other boys were. It was a miracle none of them had any permanent damage, considering they were essentially stopping their own pulses. 

The cup in his hand crashed to the floor, shattering. Could it be possible that Sherlock knew this trick with the ball? John pulled the ball from his pocket and looked at it again, his heart pounding in his chest. He slipped the ball between his upper arm and his chest, squeezing as hard as he could on the main artery in his arm. Almost immediately he could tell that the blood flow was substantially reduced because the arm felt cold and numb. The fingers of his other hand fumbled to take the pulse of his numb hand. He squeezed the ball against his chest and his fingers felt no perceptible pulse. No perceptible pulse. When he had reached out to Sherlock, poor broken Sherlock, there was no perceptible pulse in his thin, ghostly wrist. Was this because he was gone from this earth, or because the blue ball Sherlock had been playing with earlier was now squeezed between his arm and chest so as to make his pulse imperceptible? 

John’s head was swimming and his legs were weak. He had begged Sherlock to not be dead, to have found a way to cheat death. Could this be it? He clutched the ball in his hands and held it to his chest. He had hope. For the first time in all the months since he saw Sherlock fall from the sky, he had hope.


	2. A trip to the morgue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein John pays Molly Hooper a visit.

For eight days now, he had carried the blue ball with him wherever he went. At first it was nestled in the front pocket of his trousers, but after several strange looks from passersby he decided that his jacket pocket was a better place, plus there he could clutch it and roll it about in his fingers. Why this simple action gave him a newfound sense of purpose and energy he wasn’t completely sure, but there was no mistaking that finding the ball had changed him in some way. The depression that had long had its icy hooks in him was now not able to pull him below the surface of the world. There was an ease in the great burden he had carried since the day Sherlock stepped off that rooftop, and now, instead of going through the daily motions with his head bowed, there actual pep in his step. Because he had a case, now. He was the lead Consulting Detective/Investigating Doctor of The Case of the Mysterious Ball. 

As far as he could tell, there were three central questions that required an answer. Question 1: How did the ball find its way to the middle of the floor at 221b Baker Street? After finding the ball (well, slipping on the ball, really), John grilled Mrs. Hudson as to whether or not she had been in the flat since he had left that morning. She assured him that she had no reason to enter the flat and in fact had not, which he believed. So, sometime between leaving for work that morning and returning home just over eight hours later, the small blue ball either rolled or was placed in the center of his sitting room. John studied the room, examined the slope of the old floors, trying to discern where the ball could have come from and where it would have rolled had it fallen from an unseen hiding place. The room did slope, but toward the kitchen. It seemed improbable that the ball would have stopped rolling in the middle of the floor. Any momentum at all would have carried it into the kitchen. But it did stop, which strongly inferred to John that the ball was in fact placed very deliberately right in the middle of the room. But by whom?

Question 2: Could Sherlock have used the ball to stop the pulse in his arm after falling from St. Bart’s? John had conducted several experiments attempting to answer this line of inquiry. He was certain that a man in a standing position could squeeze the ball between his upper arm and torso, applying enough pressure against the axillary artery in the arm pit as to stop blood flow to the wrist, making it seem as though there was no pulse. But what about a man lying in a prone position on the ground, such as Sherlock had done after the fall? John tried several different positions – sitting, standing, lying – and in all he was able to squeeze hard enough to make his pulse imperceptible. There was no doubt in his mind that the answer to this question was yes.

Question 3: The biggest question of all was what the hell he should do now. Phone Lestrade? Text Mycroft? And what would he say? “I found a rubber ball which leads me to believe Sherlock isn’t dead after all.” That might be the sort of gigantic deductive leap that Sherlock Holmes could make, but he wasn’t Sherlock, he was just John. It was clear that the answer wasn’t to call in Lestrade or Mycroft, it was to be more like Sherlock. And Sherlock would go back to the scene of the crime and start from the beginning. So, with that, Dr. John Watson decided to make a visit to the morgue.

Molly was bent over a female corpse who was lying open from a large Y-incision and a formidable chest spreader. John could tell Molly was examining the heart, probably looking for signs of Arteriosclerosis. She looked up as he made a gentle clearing of his throat so as not to frighten her. “John,” she exclaimed, “it’s lovely to see you!” She came at John with open arms, which normally would have been a warm gesture, but due to the blood and viscera smeared on her smock, John recoiled. Molly caught herself and laughed. “Sorry!” She pulled off the gloves and the apron. John said, “that’s better,” and they gave each other a proper hug.

“Gosh, I haven’t seen you, well, how long now? Since the funeral, I guess.”

“Yes,” he replied, “eighteen months. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be out of touch so long.”

Molly brushed it off, “no, no, of course I wasn’t suggesting anything. Just surprising how quickly the time has gone.”

John looked away. “It seems longer sometimes, actually. Seems a lifetime.” There is a pause as neither knows how to respond. “So, how are you, Molly? Doing well?”

“Alright, yeah. Busy. Always busy here. People keep dying, hard as they try to fight it.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right on that.” 

“What brings you to St. Bart’s? Visiting someone?”

“I came to see you, actually.”

“Me?”

“Molly, I…I’d like to see Sherlock’s autopsy report.” She freezes. “I know it’s probably not proper, but I’m curious about some things and I just need to know exactly how he died. For closure or whatever. Do you think you could help me?”

She is nervous. He can see that she’s gone pale and seems quite flustered. Why, he wonders? “I don’t know, John. You don’t want to read that.”

“I know it will be…difficult, but I’m a doctor. And he was my best mate. And I feel I owe it to him to know, to understand…please, Molly.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I could get into trouble…”

“Molly, I’ll stand here, right here, for five minutes, glance at the report and you can put it right back and no one will be the wiser. Please, Molly, I’m begging you.”

He sees that he’s worn her down. He hadn’t expected this level of resistance from her. There’s something curious about this that he knows he should examine, but the folder in Molly’s hand as she walks toward him stops those thoughts. It stops all thoughts. His best friend, a man he dearly loved, the man who brought John back from the brink of despair was reduced to a quarter -inch stack of papers in a tattered manila folder. 

“Here he is, John.” She held it out and, for the first time since coming up with his plan to investigate Sherlock’s death, John had serious doubts about going through with it. Did he want to know the details? See the photos of the injuries? Learn how Sherlock went from being a vital, powerful, unpredictable man to being a body on a slab? He knew, if he was being honest with himself, that the odds of Sherlock having staged his own suicide were abysmally low. It was likely that when he opened the folder, he would see and read things that he’d regret. Images worse than that of Sherlock falling from the sky. Unconsciously, his hand slipped into his jacket pocket and clutched the blue ball. “Forward,” it encouraged. 

He reached for the folder and opened it gently. On top were a series of photos, of a long and lean body broken. A leg, twisted. A skull, split open. Arms curled in unnatural poses. John leaned against the steel table for support. He drew a long breath, steadied himself and looked again, more detached this time, pretending to be Sherlock. Taking in details and analyzing, but not getting lost in it all. Yes, broken bones, crushed skull, but was this in fact Sherlock’s body? There was no photograph of the face. Every photo was in isolation, showing some detail of the victim. And it could have been Sherlock’s body, no doubt about it. But it wasn’t definitely Sherlock. 

Now the autopsy report. “Deceased died from massive head trauma caused by fall from a great height.” A listing of the bones broken, nine in total. A detailed examination of the body, an excruciating description of the head wound. It was all there in black and white, well, white and blue ink, written in a steady hand that never seemed to hesitate or break mental stride. (John noticed this because usually his own notes on patients were filled with obvious stops and starts – it was hard to make it all look seamless like this report did.) The autopsy was obviously conducted by a highly-skilled expert who knew what they were doing. John had seen autopsy reports before, many times while serving in Afghanistan, and it had been rare for someone to be so perfectly specific about the cause of death. Usually doctors or medical examiners figured that getting the gist of it was good enough, the person was already dead, right? At a certain point, that level of exactitude ceased to matter. But the person who conducted the autopsy on Sherlock’s body (god, that was hard to think about, hard to imagine him spread open on one of these metal tables) had gone above and beyond their duty. John was just starting to understand that this was all a dead end, that there was nothing more to learn here, and probably nothing more to learn about Sherlock’s death at all, and that, yes, he was dead, when Molly interrupted.

“Five minutes, John.”

She reached for the folder. “Hmm? Oh, right. Yes. Thank you, Molly.” He started to hand over the folder. “Your colleague was very thorough. Went above and beyond.”

“Colleague?”

“Whoever did Sherlock’s autopsy did an excellent job. From a purely professional perspective, of course.”

Molly hesitated for a moment and then said, “I did Sherlock’s autopsy.”

“This is your report?”

“Yes. Do you think it strange that I did it myself?”

John pulled the folder back and looked at the report again. Flawless. “No, Molly. I know how you felt about Sherlock. Doing his autopsy yourself would have been a gift to him. Your last gift. Making sure you were the one who took care of these final needs. But this isn’t the autopsy of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Of course it is.”

“No, Molly. If it had been Sherlock’s body on that table, your hand would have trembled, your mind would have wandered as it processed the grief and tears would have stained the page, puddling the ink. But this report is pristine. It shows no personal connection, nothing but the most detached, clinical assessment of Sherlock’s injuries. Sherlock’s crushed cranium, Sherlock’s broken bones, Sherlock’s exploded heart. Sherlock. The man you fancied. The man you dreamed about. And you expect me to believe that his corpse laid here on this slab and you never shed a tear and your hand never shook?”

Molly is shaking, babbling and she runs from the room without saying another coherent word. John feels a sense of exhilaration and understands, for the first time, the rush of what Sherlock must have felt upon making one of his great deductive leaps. It was thrilling. The folder, labeled ‘Holmes, Sherlock,’ felt light in his hand. The riddle would continue to unravel, he felt sure of it. “I’m coming for you, Sherlock,” he said, striding out of the room, smiling for the first time in what seemed like forever.


	3. The Helpful Chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John continues to put on his thinking cap.

Molly was in on Sherlock’s secret, John was certain, but now she was nowhere to be found. He kicked himself for having let her run out before he got some real answers from her. He’d tracked her to her flat, but according to a nosy neighbor, Molly had run out earlier with a rucksack that looked to be bursting at the zip. She had left London, he presumed. Although it was disappointing that she wasn’t talking to him, her actions were practically shouting that Sherlock Holmes was alive and well. And that was…well, magical seemed like a strong word, but by god, when John thought of Sherlock being alive the only word that came to mind was magical.

The next few days seemed to pass in a blur as John turned this over and over in his mind. The great joy, the chemical rush of endorphins, surging through his body at the thought of seeing Sherlock again was almost overwhelming after so many long, dark months of loneliness and misery. Now that the fog had lifted from his brain, he started to really see the world again. The bright spring jackets of the pretty girls who worked on Shaftsbury Avenue, the shimmering rain drops reflecting traffic lights, making them look like dancing beads of pure color. And twice, from the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a man in a great coat, moving away in a quick swirl. It was fast, too fast to capture the image in his mind and bring it into perfect focus, but although his eye could not verify it, his heart said it was Sherlock.

He continued his detecting, trying to fill in some of the gaps by making his own deductions, starting with the assumption that Sherlock went to the roof of St. Bart’s to fake his own suicide, for reasons that must be tied, in some unknown way, to Moriarty. Sherlock had the ball, the blue rubber ball, with him that day, John was sure of that. Clearly Sherlock had gotten Molly to get a group of medics (or people to play at being medics) to surround Sherlock when he fell. This group of faceless people who somehow kept John from doing more than lightly grazing Sherlock’s wrist in search of a pulse (which he now believed didn’t register due to the pressure of the ball against Sherlock’s axillary artery). Now that he thought about it (with some distance from the emotional hell of seeing his friend’s lifeless body and bloody face), John felt that it was all rather odd that suddenly there was a gurney that swept Sherlock’s body away on that fateful day without waiting for the police or Medical Examiner. Shouldn’t they have tried to revive him? Done more of an examination at the scene? Who were those people who swooped in and hurried Sherlock away? Colleagues of Molly’s? Members of Sherlock’s homeless network? The possibilities were intriguing.

After work one evening, John, knackered from a long day at the surgery, made himself a strong cup of tea. He was about to take his usual chair and tune out with a bit of tele, but for some reason, he sat in Sherlock’s former chair instead. In the quiet, semi-dark room, he leaned his head back in the chair where Sherlock had spent so many hours struggling to make sense of the facts, the data, that were unique to every case. 

“Alright, just pretend I’m Sherlock. Easy enough.” He snorted at the absurdity of that statement. “What’s the biggest question I have?” John thought for a moment. There was one thing that kept rolling around in his mind. One question that seemed like it could answer many others. “Assuming that he was trying to get away from Moriarty, why did Sherlock fake his own death as opposed to just going into hiding?”

It was a daunting question, that was certain. Sherlock could have vanished more easily than making this big spectacle of his death. But then, Moriarty would have gone after him, right? So, that’s one reason, John thought to himself. What else? “Come on, think!”

He brought himself back to those last moments on the telephone with Sherlock. Usually when John thought about their last conversation he was filled with regret for all the things he left unsaid, he rarely dwelled on the words that were actually spoken. “What did Sherlock say? I’m a fraud. Tell them all, I’m a fraud.”

John recalled the emotion in Sherlock’s voice during this “confession,” the cracks and strains in the pitch and timbre of his voice. There was no faking that kind of feeling. John knew Sherlock, knew what kind of man he was. Proud. Absolutely certain of his intelligence. And moral. Sherlock Holmes would trick someone into giving information or saying too much, but he would never live his own life as a lie. When Sherlock said, “I’m a fraud,” it was a lie. But why? Why would he lie to John, and why ask John to tell Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade that Sherlock was a fake? 

“Ohhhhh.” To make it easier for everyone he left behind. “Dammit, Sherlock. Did you think we would just stop caring?” That Sherlock would think this, that he would think that his friends only loved him because of his deductive wizardry, and that if this somehow vanished that they wouldn’t care about him anymore, made John very sad. More than at any other time he had the strong desire to hold his friend in his arms, to comfort this terribly difficult, prickly man. To let him know he was loved unconditionally. 

“I hope I still get the chance.” John was having success verbalizing his ideas and so he decided to roll with it. “Alright, what do I know so far? Well, I know, or at least strongly suspect, that Sherlock Holmes faked his own death with assistance from Molly Hooper. I think he did it to both evade Moriarty and to protect the feelings of the few people that he cared about. I believe he is still alive and I even think…” and there was a flash of mental light as John found his fingers curling around the blue ball in his pocket, “I even think that Sherlock Holmes planted this ball in this room in the hopes that I would put it all together and realize that he’s not dead.”

The energy and exhilaration he felt while expressing these theories aloud propelled him out of Sherlock’s chair and he stood bolt upright with arms spread in the middle of the room. “Oh, yes! Yes!” John shouted at the world. “Ha, ha! I’m going to find you, Sherlock. You can’t come out and tell me where you are, but I’ll follow the clues and find you, if it’s the last thing I do. I’m coming for you, Sherlock Holmes. That’s an absolute promise!”


	4. The Globe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another clue leads John closer to Sherlock.

For several days, John awaited a further sign from Sherlock Holmes. None came. At least, none that he could discern definitively. Yes, there did appear to be a run on milk at his local shop, and the package of Hob Nobs in the cupboard only had one Hob Nob left and really, he couldn’t remember eating all those biscuits himself. But he try as he might, he was unable glean any information as to Sherlock’s whereabouts.

“Why won’t he just reach out to me?” John wondered aloud during his commute home. 

“What’s that, ya little git?,” growled an intimidatingly large man pressed up against him on the tube. “Yer lookin’ fer someone ta touch ya?”

“N-no. Just…no. Sorry, talking to myself,” John stammered.

“Playin’ with yerself?” another terrifying gentleman chimed in.

John realized he was surrounded by a group of men that would comfortably fit in at the local docks. And no where else. 

“Sorry, no. Just...no,” he said as the train doors slid open at the Regent’s Park stop, one before Baker Street. “Getting off,” he shouted, worming his way to the door.

“Aye, I bet he’s getting’ off, little tosser!” another of the large, hairy men roared, as they all burst out laughing. 

The doors slid closed behind him, none too soon. He was in for a bit of a walk home alone Marleybone Road, but it would give him time to think - this time to himself. “Okay, so Sherlock hasn’t given me another clue. Why not? Maybe he’s not really alive and I’m just deluding himself.” That was a rotten thought that stopped him in his tracks. It took a moment to sort of let that wash over him before he could go on. “No. No, I’m not going to dwell on that. I’m certain that Sherlock faked his own death and I know the blue ball did not just materialize in our flat. He had to be the one who put it there.”

At this, he clutched the ball in his pocket. It reassured him that he was on the right path and so he continued. “Okay, so why hasn’t Sherlock contacted me with another clue?” This was perplexing. “I’m ready and waiting, Sherlock, let’s have it,” John thought to himself. “Oh!! That’s it! I know I’m on to something, but Sherlock doesn’t know I’ve figured it out. I have to send him a sign.” But what?

Arriving at Baker’s Street, he saw nothing the tiniest bit out of place. As far as he could tell, no one had been in the flat since he left that morning. He immediately went to the windows and wondered if he should place something there that could be seen from the outside. A flag? Tape an “X” on the pane of glass? “What should I do, just leave Sherlock a note?” He looked around the flat, a bit lost. Again, he felt the blue ball in his pocket. “No, not a note. A message.” And with that, he pulled the ball from his coat and put it in the center of the floor, exactly where he had found it. 

“Alright, Sherlock. I’m ready for you. Let the game begin.” John hurried back out of the flat, deciding to treat himself to a nice long dinner away from the flat.

Tottling home several hours (and four pints) later, John was a bit giddy. He missed the key hole of 221b Baker Street a couple of times and laughed at himself like an idiot. A passing couple gave him a dirty look, which he returned. Finally, the key slid into the hole, the door swung open and he followed, flushed from the alcohol and anxious to see the results of his experiment. He stumbled to the bottom of the stairs, took a couple of breaths to sturdy himself and trounced up to his flat.

There, in the center of the room, exactly where he had carefully placed the blue ball, he found – nothing. The ball was gone. “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. “He took the ball!” John spun around gleefully, looking under the couch and chairs to ensure the ball hadn’t merely rolled away. “Not here! Or here!” After a quick search of the room, he was certain – the ball had vanished.

No, not vanished. The ball had been taken. Removed from this room by Sherlock Holmes. He’d bet his life on it. “Ah ha! I figured you out, Sherlock!” John was drunk on beer and high on adrenaline. It was an exhilarating feeling. “Now, to follow the trail.” Once again, he scanned the room, this time not looking for the ball, but rather whatever clue Sherlock had left for him to follow. 

His eyes danced across the desk, a mess of papers, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Same with the cushions on the sofa, the cattle skull, the wall paper, the mantle. He passed into the kitchen. The table and counters were pretty orderly, nothing out of place, nothing odd or unusual. Fridge, cupboards, bathroom. It was all checking out to be the same as when he’d left the flat earlier. The only change he could tell was that the mysterious blue ball was gone. 

“Shit,” John said, plopping down in his chair. As suddenly as it had come on, his surge of energy was draining away. “You can never do anything the easy way, can you Sherlock? Always have to make things so bloody difficult.” He closed his eyes and felt the alcohol buzz fade. What should he do now? Had Sherlock taken the ball but not left him a message? What would be the point? No, he thought, there must be something here.

“Come on, John, get off your arse,” he told himself, standing again. He remembered his earlier idea of putting a signal in the window. Maybe that’s what Sherlock did, he thought. He crossed behind Sherlock’s chair to the window, bumping into the antique globe that always seemed to be in the way whenever he cleaned the flat. “What the hell is this thing doing here?” Pushing it aside, he pulled the curtain from the window and looked out. There was nothing in the window frame or on the glass. Nothing outside the window and nothing different from the view that he could tell. “Dammit, Sherlock! Don’t come here and take my ball but not leave me a clue! You didn’t touch one thing, you heartless bastard!” And then he looked down at the globe. “Ohhhhhhhh.” He reached out to touch the antique surface, shiny and sepia toned with age. “The globe, is it, Sherlock? What am I to learn from this old globe?” And just like that, it popped into his mind. The Globe Theatre. Shakespeare’s Globe. That was the clue.

John raced to his computer and brought up the site for Shakespeare’s Globe. The season was opening tomorrow at 2 p.m. Unfortunately, there were no tickets available for online purchase, but he knew from past experience that he could probably get a ticket at the Theatre. There were always cancellations, right? Regardless, Sherlock wanted him at the Globe, so that’s where he would be.

“So, it’s off to the Theatre tomorrow, eh, Sherlock? Well, that’s just excellent. They do say, ‘the play’s the thing.’”


	5. The Ticket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is ready for the big show and his chance at seeing his beloved friend once again!

John woke with a sense of purpose the next morning, passing quickly through his morning routine. He even found a bit of extra energy and decided to put himself through a quick workout, something he hadn’t done in, god, far too long, now. As the clock struck 11 a.m., he checked himself in the mirror, gave the globe one last spin and decided he was ready for battle. “Right then, here we go,” he said, turning on his heel and bounding down the stairs to the street below. 

It was one of those rare English spring days when the sun lit up the sky, a perfect contrasting yellow orb in a sea of happy blue. No taxi for him on a day like this, that was certain. He decided to take the tube to the Millennium Bridge and walk to The Globe. At his tube station he did a quick route for himself – Jubilee line to Bond Street, transfer to the Central Line to Bank and that would be close enough. He could transfer again to Mansion House, but he enjoyed walking along the river, particularly on a day such as today. And he’d given himself loads of time to get to the Theatre.

Coming up out of the station at Bank, John felt a sense of excitement and anticipation that surprised him. He knew what was at the heart of it – Sherlock. Well, the promise of seeing Sherlock again, hopefully soon. He might be on a wild goose chase, but he had a very reassuring sense that all was going to end well. “Hmm. Shakespeare,” he smiled to himself. All he had to do was get a ticket to a sold out performance at The Globe on opening day (it sounded a bit difficult when put like that) and he was sure that somehow, Sherlock would find him.

Ahead loomed the Millennium Footbridge. Open for 10 years now, the bridge had originally proved too unstable to cross by pedestrians, who adjusted their walking gaits in time to the bridge’s natural sway. This made the swaying worse and it took two years to correct the problem. John always enjoyed walking across the “wobbly bridge,” as it was still called. The view of the city was breathtaking and he always felt a bit like he was performing a high-wire act. Suspended high above the Thames, he was literally walking through the air, levitating from one bank to the other. 

The Tate Modern was just ahead of him, now, and he turned to see St. Paul’s directly behind, perfectly bracketed by the bridge. God, he loved this city and the special vitality of this area in particular. He thought about taking a quick stroll through the museum, but the promise of an adventure kept him walking forward. 

Shakespeare’s Globe literally bustled with activity. Excited theatregoers swarmed the footpaths, looking up at the Globe in awe. The Theatre had been constructed to look as close to the original as possible, with period building materials and techniques used throughout. It was a wonder, that was certain. John closed his eyes just a bit and felt transported back in time 400 years to the height of the Elizabethan Era. The original Globe had burned to the ground long ago, but this faithful and loving recreation brought the past back to life. Again, he thought, is there anywhere else like London?

John stood in the cue for the box office, which wasn’t too long, as he was early. But he could hear already that the hopeful people standing in front of him were finding their dreams of tickets dashed. Still, he waited his turn. “Any chance you’ve a single anywhere?” he asked the woman behind the glass. “I’m sorry sir, even the yard is full. It’s opening day, you know.” Damn. “Right. Ta.” John said. 

As he began to turn from the box office he thought to himself, “Too bad Sherlock didn’t think to make a reservation for me.” This amused him for a moment and then he quickly turned back to the window before the bloke behind him could step up. “Ummm, does there happen to be a ticket held for John Watson, please?” “John Watson?” she asked. “Yes.” There was no way there actually would be a ticket, he knew, but no harm in asking, right? As she flipped through the stack of envelopes, John started to imagine what else he could do with his day, and how else he might try to get in touch with Sherlock. His mind began to wander as he waited and he didn’t actually hear the box office woman the first time she spoke. 

“Here you are. Dr. John Watson, one ticket.” “Excuse me?” John said, bewildered. “Your ticket, sir. Enjoy the show,” she said, sliding an envelope with one precious ticket inside. John reached out in amazement, taking the ticket and stepping back out of the line in total shock. “He left me a ticket,” John said aloud, too stunned to care what those around him may have thought. John held the envelope as if it contained the world’s most valuable item, and in many ways, that’s exactly what it was to him. Actual proof that not only was his friend, his dear, beloved friend, Sherlock Holmes, alive, but that they would soon be reunited. 

As he walked away from the box office, John took in the scene surrounding him. There were jugglers and musicians, all dressed in Elizabethan garb. People were clapping along and kids were playing with glee. The festive atmosphere was intoxicating and the rush of adrenaline he’d experienced upon receiving the ticket had made him practically giddy. As a roaming musician playing a lively tune on a recorder danced past, John found himself dancing along, following a small crowd of others who were also swept up in the music. This was literally his happiest moment since the day he’d lost Sherlock.

As the impromptu jig wound to its conclusion, John caught his breath and began to scan the crowd for that most familiar face, the visage he most longed to see. “I’m here, Sherlock. Where are you?” As it was getting near to show time, he grabbed a prawn and rocket sandwich (“probably not very Elizabethan, but ah, well,” he thought), a packet of crisps and a pint of ale at one of the vendor stands. Wolfing it all down, he was ready to make his way into the Theatre. 

“Would you like to rent a cushion?” asked a young woman standing near the entrance. “Only wooden benches inside,” she added. John pulled out the ticket, trying to find out where he was to be. “Do I have a proper seat or am I one of the groundlings? I don’t even know where I’m sitting,” he told her. She held out her hand and checked the ticket. “Oh, this is lovely. You’re in the middle gallery, so it’s the wooden benches, unless you want to hire a cushion. You might be alright, but it is ‘Hamlet,’ so…you might want a bit of padding, just in case” John smiled, “right. He is known for chuntering on, isn’t he? Yeah, I’ll take a cushion.” “Three pounds,” she said, handing him a seat pad. “Cheers,” he replied, and walked into Shakespeare’s Globe.

God, this place took your breath away. He’d been here for a handful of other productions, but he was still overwhelmed. The gleaming English oak, the amazing woodworking of the stage areas, the way that the midday sun perfectly lit the playing space - gorgeous and ingenious. There was something tremendously gratifying about watching theatre in this kind of environment. 

“You’re third down in this row, sir,” the usher said, handing John a program. “Thanks,” John replied, jostling his way to his seat. He adjusted the cushion and got situated. He unfolded the program and scanned the list of dramatis persona, looking for a name or pseudonym that might be familiar. Nothing. He began trying to extrapolate any references in the play that might be important, but couldn’t come up with one. Sighing, he thought to himself, “Hamlet, eh, Sherlock? What am I supposed to conclude from this?” And then there was no more time for pondering, as two guards entered the stage and the play began.


	6. Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Welcome to hell, John," said Sherlock Holmes

John was absolutely swept away. He’d seen other productions of “Hamlet,” though not for many years. But this was by far the most captivating performance of any play he’d ever attended. Maybe it was the spectacular performances or this most perfect setting – the loving recreation of Shakespeare’s own Globe, but what John suspected was that for the first time in his life, he actually related to the character of Hamlet. 

Maybe it was a bit because of the melancholia that had dominated his life of late, or the feeling of isolation, but most definitely what he felt connected to was Hamlet’s struggle with the impossibility of certainty. John watched Hamlet constantly search out more information about the fate of his father, always knowing that he could never know with absolute certitude that his uncle was responsible. In the same way that John felt in his heart that Sherlock was alive, but he lacked absolute proof. Both John and Hamlet were forced to continue moving forward, waiting for more information to take action, struggling with the notion that life is based in uncertainty. 

John smiled as Hamlet began to tell Horatio of his journey to England and his subsequent adventure aboard a pirate ship that eventually brought him home to Denmark. John had always imagined what Hamlet must have been like on a ship full of mangy pirates – the proverbial fish out of water to say the least. There were parallels between Sherlock and Hamlet, too, obviously, the biggest being their mutual sense of isolation, strong sense of morality (though both skewed in certain ways), and the ways in which everyone in their lives served as a foil to their own character. For a moment, John tried to imagine that if Sherlock was Hamlet, what role did he, John, play? Polonius? Laertes? God, he hoped that it wasn’t Ophelia.

They came to the climactic battle. One by one, the characters fell to their unalterable doom and Hamlet himself was struck with the poisoned blade. John always thought at this point that Hamlet has been so bloody promising. He had so much to live for. But as ever, the sweet prince faded from this world, leaving a vast emptiness behind. Exactly like his Sherlock. 

The lump in his throat and his glassy eyes were a more than a testimony to the power of the performance and the timeliness of this classic work. He was remembering Sherlock, lying on the pavement, bloody and broken, and completely beyond his reach. As the play ended and the audience erupted in applause, John was suddenly on his feet, shouting and whistling his approval, his voice breaking with emotion as the tears streamed down his face. Cheering wildly helped expel some of the powerful feelings that were bursting inside him and he was fairly certain that the people on either side thought he was a bit mad.

The audience began filing out of his row, but John couldn’t tear himself away from the stage. He knew there must have been something critically important he was to have worked out, to have understood during the performance that he just didn’t grasp. What was it? What clue did Sherlock leave behind? And if he couldn’t figure it out, what would he do? Now the last one in his seating section, John was finally roused from his worried thoughts by a gentle throat clearing. The girl who had rented him the cushion was right next to him. “Oh, sorry. You’ll be wanting the cushion back, of course. Sorry, I was just taking a moment to…think,” he said. 

“It is a play that does provoke thought, that’s true,” she responded. 

“Well, here’s the cushion. Thanks again. It was an excellent suggestion. Not sure my bum could have taken it, otherwise,” he said, feeling a bit stupid. 

He looked at the stage again and then began to leave his row as the girl picked up his cushion. Just as he made it to the stairs, he heard her ask, “would you like a tour?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Backstage? I could give you a quick peek. If you promise not to tell anyone.”

“Yeah, no, I’m very good at keeping secrets. A tour sounds brilliant. Lead the way!”

The young woman slipped in front of John and led him down the stairs, toward the backstage area of the Theatre. John was still under the Globe’s many charms and found his eyes could not take in everything that he saw. They walked past crew members and actors, and John found himself ducking and spinning to stay out of the way. There was a tremendous amount of post-performance energy in the air and John felt buoyed by it as he followed the usher. Surprisingly, no one seemed to think that he was out of place and in fact he received many smiles as he passed through the cast. 

The further into the bowels of the Theatre that they walked, the less crowded things became. Soon he was following the young woman down a narrow passageway to what turned out to be an enormous costume room filled with gowns, doublets and every manner of dress that could possibly be required in a Shakespearean play. “Wow,” he was able to squeak out as his jaw dropped. 

“They’re really something, aren’t they? I love this room,” the usher said. “Go ahead, look around. No one will mind.”

John took her for her word and began to walk into the costume room. Seeing the beautiful detail of the costumes up close was absolutely remarkable. He could see a Cleopatra costume glimmering in the corner and a wild and dirty heap of clothing that could only be Caliban’s. He even reached out to gently touch some of the fabrics, though he was certain it wasn’t strictly allowed. “This is just…mind blowing,” he said to the girl, turning to find her in the rows of costumes. But she wasn’t there. “Hello? Are you there?” he called out, but received no reply. Suddenly, the lights shut off and he was alone in a pitch black room with about 1,000 outrageously expensive costumes between him and the door. 

“Perfect,” he grumbled, dragging out his mobile and using the light as a weak substitute torch. He slowly and carefully picked his way toward where he thought the door was and finally saw a thin crack of light. Groping, his hand brushed the handle and he was out in the hallway again, more dimly lit than before. There was still no sign of his tour guide or anyone else for that matter. He really had no choice except to try and make his way out himself.

The only problem was that he had gotten completely turned around in the many twisting hallways backstage. It was like a maze, but a dark maze and all roads seemed to lead to lower ground. He was certain he needed to be walking up, up toward the out of doors, toward freedom. John was feeling anxious, almost a deep sense of panic began to overtake him. As he walked up and down hallways (frequently backtracking the same areas over and over in desperation), he began trying to pull open every door he past. One was a janitor’s closet, one was a kitchen area, most didn’t open, one was a loo (which he took advantage of), but none seemed to lead out. Finally, after what seemed like hours twisting and turning under the Theatre, he found a door that seemed to be a long passage way, the end of which seemed to be some sort of light peering through a thin crack in the wall. There was no way to tell what was down there, but it seemed his best hope. He plunged through the door and it slammed shut behind him.

His fingers danced along the walls on either side, trying to compensate for his blindness by feeding his mind information on where he was. Wood, slightly rough. Now and then a rope hanging down, wrapped around a thick nail. A piece of cloth, rough, like burlap. No, not that coarse – muslin. He continued letting his fingertips lead him forward. As he drew closer to the end of the tunnel, the fabric became softer and warmer, velvet, he guessed, which was probably why it was so dark in here. The velvet was absorbing all the light. It reminded him of when he worked on the backstage crew during an all-boy performance of “My Fair Lady” when he was at primary school. He still didn’t know why the headmaster had chosen that particular show, but the thing he remembered about it (in addition to the rather embarrassing casting), was how it was his job to ensure that the velvet curtains remained in place during the show so that no light from back stage spilled out onto the playing space. As he reached the sliver of light at the end of the tunnel, he realized it was just a narrow gap between two velvet panels, which could only mean that another step forward would take him onto the stage of Shakespeare’s Globe.

With trembling fingers, John pulled back the heavy black curtain a few millimeters, just enough for his eye to look out onto the stage. It was empty and getting dark. He’d been in the Theatre so long that the sun was beginning to give up its fight. Still, it was brighter out here than it had been in the hallway behind him and in the depths of the Theatre, at least for now. He inched forward slowly; never had John Watson felt more out of place than he did while treading the boards of The Globe. “God, this is practically sacrilege,” he muttered, shuffling forward. He could see into the audience seating, and in fact could see his own seat from which he had watched “Hamlet,” an experience that seemed a lifetime ago. 

“Get a grip, John. Get off the stage and the hell out of here, now.” He began to look for a way from the edge of the stage down into what was called the lawn, where the groundlings stood during the performance. The stage was actually higher up than he had imagined and there was no set of ladders or stairs that he could see. He would have to shimmy to the edge of the stage, slide his legs over, lower himself down as far as he could and let gravity take care of the rest. There was a definite chance of a twisted ankle, possibly a sprain, but he doubt he’d break anything and the setting of the sun coupled with his growing panic about being abandoned and alone in this enormous place meant that he was going to risk it for the chance to be free. 

John gathered his courage and strode across the stage, head facing forward and ready to carry out his plan. He was maybe three or four yards from the lip of the stage when the next step he took was into absolute nothingness. One moment the floor was in front of him and the next it was gone. He was falling, faster than he could think, and then even more suddenly, landing, a surprisingly soft and gentle landing into a large air bag, which easily cushioned the impact of his fall. 

He had been too startled to scream and now the breath was knocked out of him, so John just lay on his back, gasping for air, as he tried to figure out what the hell had happened. Looking up, he could just see a perfect square of twilight-y sky above him. A trap door. He had fallen through a trap door and was once again in the bowels of the stage. “Oh, not again,” he groaned. He began to think he’d never escape this bloody Theatre. 

He remembered learning, long ago, that in Shakespeare’s day, the pit under the stage was called Hell and if a character fell into this space, it was as though they were descending into the Devil’s lair. “Well, that was appropriately named,” he thought. He was in hell and there seemed to be no way out.

Suddenly, John heard a small scuff at the foot of the air bag. He tried to sit up, but it was difficult, as every move he made only served to contort his body into uncomfortable positions. Bringing his head up forced his bum down and his legs up in counterweight. He quickly gave up and just lay back, listening for another sound. He knew someone was in the room with him, but he could see nothing except the darkening square of sky above him. And then, that was gone as well, as a figure loomed over him, blocking out the last bit of light. 

John drew in a quick breath as he saw the silhouette of the man hovering over him. “Oh, my god,” he stammered, trying desperately to make sense of what he was seeing. Suddenly, a small torch came to life in the man’s hand and a beam of light ended all of John’s doubts. He no longer faced the impossibility of uncertainty, as he stared into the face of the man above him.

“Welcome to hell, John,” said Sherlock Holmes.

And then John Watson, possibly inspired by the drama he had seen earlier that day, possibly because he’d only eaten a prawn sandwich all day, or maybe due to seeing a dead man come to life in front of him, did the only thing that seemed to make any sense. He fainted.


	7. The Actor's Lounge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, reunited and it feels so good!

John Watson was lying on his back, of that much he was certain. Everything else was a bit of a blur. As his eyes began to flutter, signaling a return to consciousness, he was aware that he was, in fact, lying on a sofa in a lighted room. He could see posters for different Shakespearean productions scattered across the walls. Damn, he was still in the Theatre. Would he never find his way out? Wait, what had happened when he was down in that pit below the stage. He had seen…had he really seen…?

“Sherlock?”

Suddenly, inches from his face, there was Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes, John. I’m here.”

“Oh, god. Where am I? What’s happened?”

“You’ve fainted due to decreased blood to the brain. I’m guessing it’s the shock of seeing me after so long, unless you have some sort of medical condition I’m not aware of.” Sherlock paused for a moment. “Have you?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ve brought you here to the actor’s lounge while you recover. Drink this juice. Your blood sugar level is probably quite low. You must take better care of yourself, John.” 

John took a sip of the orange juice, absolutely gobsmacked at the fact he was sitting next to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, who was not dead and buried in a cemetery, but a living, breathing man sitting so close John could feel his body heat.

“Yeah, well, at least I don’t go jumping off buildings for fun.”

“That wasn’t fun, it was necessary.”

“You better explain it then, Sherlock, because for me, the last 18 months have been pure hell and happy as I am that you’re alive, I want to know why I had to suffer.”

Sherlock took a steadying breath as he absorbed this blow. “Drink that juice while I tell you my story. And then you can hate me if you like, I won’t hold it against you. But before I begin, John, let me assure you that killing myself off in your eyes, becoming dead to you, was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

John’s eyes went wide and his hands shook as he brought the glass to his lips for another long, slow drink. He hung on Sherlock’s every word.

“Moriarty gave me a choice. Either kill myself, or he would kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. In fact, he had a sniper trained on each of you, waiting to pull the trigger if I didn’t off myself. I’d known it would come down to this. Destroying me and forcing me to take my life was what he called, ‘The Final Problem.’” 

John was wavering on the edge of a complete emotional breakdown. The sudden reunion with his friend, coupled with the new knowledge that everything Sherlock had done had been to protect his life and the lives of others, well, it was too much for a man to take. “You asked Molly Hooper for help, didn’t you?”

Sherlock nodded. “Everyone you saw that day after I…jumped…was either under Molly’s employ or one of my homeless network. I had to die in a way that convinced you utterly. Not easy to fake a death good enough to fool a medical doctor. I knew you’d take my pulse and so I remembered the old trick with your friend,” he said, drawing the blue ball out of his pocket. 

“You remembered, too, John, didn’t you? I was playing with the ball when you got to the lab, trying to show you the clue that someday you might have to follow. Hoping that at some point in the future you might think, ‘how odd that Sherlock was bouncing a ball.’” Sherlock paused, lost in his thoughts for a moment. 

John could see and feel a deep sadness emanating from Sherlock. The lightness of spirit, the sharp confidence and curiosity seemed to have been dulled. “Why are you at the Globe?”

“Since my untimely death, I go from place to place, living rough, though not too rough. Theatres are nice places to hide out. Lots of access to costumes and makeup, so a disguise is always at the ready. And the company of actors and crew is always changing, so a new face is rarely noticed.” 

“Where have you been?”

“Around the world, trying to take apart Moriarty’s network. I’ve even had some luck with two of the three snipers. Hired assassins, really. But there’s one man left. Unfortunately, he’s the best of the three. Sebastian Moran. I’ve not managed to get close enough to him to take him out of play.” Sherlock hung his head, defeated.

“Sherlock, you got two out of three, that’s pretty good. We can work on Moran, I know it.”

“No, John. We can’t. You see, Moran is your sniper and at any moment on any given day, he’s got his crosshairs trained on you. You and I, can’t work on anything together, because the second he knows I’m alive, he’ll be coming for you, John, and he’s the most deadly man in all the world. And I can’t let you die, I just can’t.” 

By the time Sherlock finished these deeply felt words, his eyes were bright with tears. John was deeply moved by Sherlock’s feelings for him, even after all this time. 

“Let’s run away, then. Find somewhere he can’t get to us.”

“It’s just not possible, I’m sorry to say. There is no evading a man like Moran.”

“Alright, then we’ll…I don’t know, smoke him out. You come out of hiding, he comes for me, but we’ll be waiting for him. He’ll be the one in the trap. We’ll get Lestrade and some of his boys…”

“No, John. I won’t use you as bait to make my own situation better. Chances are you’d wind up dead and then what’s the point of all of this?”

John was angry now. “So, why the hell did you come back if you don’t want my help getting Moran? Why let me even know you were alive?” 

Sherlock looked a bit wounded. “Because I missed you.”

“Missed me or missed showing off?”

“Are they two different things?” John smiled in spite of himself. Sherlock took a deep breath and looked directly into John’s eyes. “I missed you, John. Every day, all I wanted was to be in our flat, with you.”

“Then come home.”

“I can’t, don’t you see? You and I, we can’t see each other again, but at least I know you’re out there, alive.”

“Yeah, well, the problem is that I’m not alive, Sherlock, not really. And I haven’t been since I watched my best friend, the person I care about most in the world, step off of a bloody roof. I believed you were dead and I felt like I was dead. And if I go back to Baker Street now, that’s what my life will be like again. Dead. I need you, Sherlock. I need you to make me whole, to give my life purpose. So, it’s a risk, yeah, trying to get Moran. But if it means that I might get you back, might get my life back, then by god, I’m taking it.” John was panting now from the exertion of saying these things to Sherlock, these things that had been building over the long lonely months. 

“You could die.”

“Yes. I could. I don’t care.”

“Moriarty threatened the three people he thought I was closest to - you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He needn’t have bothered with the others. I would have jumped off a roof for only you.”

“Right. Well, now it’s my turn to jump off the roof, or whatever. Let’s take him out, Sherlock, and then we’ll go back to the way it was. You and me in 221b Baker Street.”

John holds out his hand to his friend. Sherlock takes it and then, at the same moment, they pull each other into a long, warm embrace. Sherlock finally says, his voice thick with emotion, “you’ve gotten boney. Aren’t you eating?”

“You’re one to talk. I’m guessing you haven’t had a proper meal in months. Any chance we can go to dinner? I’m starving.”

“Yes, just let me get into costume and makeup. Won’t be a moment.”

John followed Shakespeare into the attached dressing room, where he once again saw the Cleopatra costume hanging. “Oh, no. You don’t mean…”

“Get a grip, John. That’s not for me. I try to blend in, not stand out.” Sherlock began altering his appearance as John stared at the man in the mirror, unable to tear his eyes away from his long-lost friend.

“So, what do we have to do? To get Moran to come out of hiding?”

Sherlock smiled, “oh, it shouldn’t be too hard. I only have to rise from the dead.”


End file.
